


assimilate, integrate (compartmentalize, differentiate)

by pseudoanalytics



Series: linguistics, semantics [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Sex, Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Miscommunication, Slow Dancing, Wire Play, gross misuse of electrical engineering, he's learning, nonverbal nines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/pseuds/pseudoanalytics
Summary: The tv clicks off as Hank sets down the remote. There’s a beat of silence, and Connor decides now is as good a time as any to have his discussion.“Hank,” he asks calmly. “Do you want me to purchase genitalia?”





	assimilate, integrate (compartmentalize, differentiate)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mortarsmayfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortarsmayfall/gifts).



> this is a love letter to twitter jericho and a sequel to [suppress, deflect (advance, accept)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278691)

Hank is watching a show on the television that _he_ bought, but with the electricity that _Connor_ pays for.

His mind is probably blank, completely focused with the drama unfolding on the screen. He's undoubtedly entranced with curiosity. Who is the murderer? The charming debutante with something to hide? The spurned lover looking for revenge? The underappreciated butler caught up in a fit of rage?

If Connor were the detective in question, he would be pressing for the arrest of the spurned lover. Judging by his brisk walking pace and an estimation of the timeline at the fatal party, he would have had more than enough of a chance to break away and murder the rich politician in question. If Connor was given ten minutes with him in a DPD interrogation room, he'd be able to procure a confession, he's certain.

That being said, Connor already knows how this episode turns out. Just seeing the title card was enough to prompt an automatic search which fed back the complete synopsis to him, virtually spoiling the plot in its entirety. The detective will accuse the debutante, and as the police are taking her away, the butler will say some simple thing that tips the detective off to the truth, and he'll be arrested instead.

Needless to say, the thrill of a cheap, vintage murder mystery has not been enough to entertain Connor's processors. He's fiddling with his empty mug, slipping his fingers through the handle, spinning it, setting the whole of the cup over his fist. Simultaneously, he runs various projections in preparation for a line of discussion he's been meaning to have with Hank for some time now.

"Oh, come on!" Hank blurts at the screen. The butler has just revealed himself as the killer. "This is bullshit! We saw him in the dining room when the body was found. There's no way he made it to the kitchen and back in that amount of time!"

Connor looks at Hank. "Who would _you_ have accused?" he asks.

Hank huffs. "It was clearly the lover boy. He's the only one who could have made that trip and back fast enough without looking out of breath."

Sometimes Connor really really loves Hank.

"I know it's tv and it's fake and made up, but the least they could do is make sure it makes sense."

"It's also very out of date," Connor adds.

Hank gives him a look. "Okay, these dumb shows were old when _I_ was young, but they're still fun to watch. I wish real detective work was like this sometimes."

"With a clear rising action, climax, and resolution? Complete with several red herrings and unfounded deductions?"

The tv clicks off as Hank sets down the remote. "No, I meant where the detective doesn't have to work with an android." He shoots Connor a crooked smile to indicate that he's joking, but it's unnecessary. Connor is already perfectly aware that Hank would be very upset without him around.

There's a beat of silence, and Connor decides now is as good a time as any to have his discussion.

"Hank," he says calmly. "Do you want me to purchase genitalia?"

Apparently he's made a miscalculation, because Hank freezes up, stuck staring at the blank tv screen, eyes wide. Connor had calculated a 78% chance of this being an optimal time for this conversation. Hank's heartrate was slow and steady, indicating his comfort and relaxation. They'd been watching a show together which was widely considered to be an act of domestic intimacy. This _should_ have worked.

Then again, humans have odd social and personal rules regarding sexual topics. Maybe Hank prefers not to discuss this in front of Sumo, who is dozing at their feet.

"If you'd like, we can discuss this away from him," Connor says, petting the portion of the dog's head that he can reach.

Hank just groans and sags into the couch. He throws his head back and rubs his face with a hand. Connor likes the scratching noise Hank's fingers make in his beard, so he amplifies it for his own enjoyment.

"Connor, what made you think of that?" Hank asks, still muffled behind his hand.

His heartrate has increased, and his stress levels have spiked, though not to an unhealthy extent. Blood flow to his ears has turned them red. His face is also probably flushed, which Connor assumes is why he's covering it.

"I've been meaning to ask for some time now. You're human, and you've had several sexual partners in your lifetime, all of which were human until me. Statistics would indicate that this means you are more comfortable and well-versed with genitalia than with biocomponents."

The hand finally moves away. Hank might assume that Connor can't see his face in the darkness.

He's wrong. Connor bumps his nightvision and takes in the splotchy flush.

After a long, tenuous moment, stretched longer by what Connor is learning to consider "nerves," Hank clears his throat. "Okay. What do you think I'm going to ask?"

An easy question. Connor has been doing nothing but predicting the lines of this conversation all evening. "You're going to ask what I want."

"Uh huh. And?"

"I want whatever _you_ want, Hank." This reply is perfectly chosen to create more tension. Hank doesn't like to shoulder the responsibility of Connor's preferences. He likes Connor to be as human as possible and make his own opinions. Hence why Connor has been considering a purchase from Cyberlife's new genitalia line.

Sure enough, Hank's eyes narrow. "Connor. Getting a... dick... is a huge step. It's something _you_ have to want. Not something to do on a whim."

"It's not a whim. I don't believe I'm capable of doing anything on a whim. In what may seem to be seconds for you, I can extrapolate a well-thought out consideration of possible outcomes and their consequences. And I've given this a great deal of thought."

"You sit around thinking about getting your own cock?"

"Among other options," Connor says coolly. He calls up the image of biocomponent #3941c that he has been eyeing for the better part of a week. He displays it on his hand to show Hank. This will undoubtedly garner some sort of violent response.

Sure enough, Hank practically throws himself across the couch to grab Connor's hand and smother it into a pillow. He's uncertain of where to touch it to avoid making contact with the image. This is of course entirely illogical since the image is a projection.

"Jesus christ, Connor!" Hank shouts. He glances around the room as if a crowd will burst out of hiding and catch him in the act of fondling a holographic representation of a human vagina. "Put that away!"

Connor openly frowns. He wants Hank to know that he's confused. "This seemed the best choice. Considering her medical history, your former wife most likely—" Another miscalculation. Hank's stress levels jump higher than anticipated at the mention of his ex, exceeding the target range.

"Connor, do you ever fucking think about what comes out of your mouth?" Hank cuts him off before he can respond. "Shut up. I _know_ you do super fast, hyperspeed calculations about what you're going to say. You measure stress levels and shit and—" Hank pauses and sits back, releasing Connor's wrist. "Hey. Are you running this like an interrogation?"

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"Yes, you do. Are you looking at my stress levels and blood pressure and heartrate right now?"

Connor has a moment to decide between lying or admitting to his subroutines. He gauges Hank's stress at 72%. Telling the truth will make it rise substantially, but getting caught in a lie would make it skyrocket into the danger zone.

He opts to tell the truth.

"Yes, Hank. My processors know the exact range that your stress levels should fall into for optimal communication and resolution."

"I need you to listen very closely, Connor." Hank waits until he meets his eyes and holds them. "I am _not_ a suspect to be questioned. I'm not fractions and decimals and probabilities for you to toss around in your brain calculator until you can stress me into an early grave. That shit works as an android at a crime scene, but it has no fucking place here in our house." Sumo whines as he gets to his feet to lumber into the kitchen. Even _he_ can sense the tension in the room. "If you wanna talk to me about something, you bring it up and we'll talk. You can't just manipulate me into a forced conversation like that."

Connor's projected discussion outcomes didn't account for this turn. He'll have to calculate on the fly. He was rather certain this was going to be an open-and-shut case. He'd show Hank his idea, Hank would enthusiastically agree, and maybe he'd even get a hand inside his chest compartment before Hank got too tired and went to bed.

"I don't understand," Connor says, breaking eye contact to stare at the floor. He scans it to see the dog dandruff, dirt, and dead skin cells embalmed in the fibers. It offers no solutions to his current predicament. "Our projected relationship is highest when I closely or nearly perfectly emulate human behavior. Humans are born with genitalia. All my calculations informed me that you would be happiest with me physically appearing to be an organic being as well."

He eyes Hank's expression. He still can't scan him; it's too distracting, what with all the many points of casual interest he can find on the planes of Hank's face, but he can observe changes. Even now, the tension in Hank's brow dissipates, replaced with a crinkle that, compared to Connor's backlogged photographic gallery of responses, means he's about to pull him close.

Sure enough, Hank sits back in his corner and throws an arm up against the backrest. He gestures to Connor to scoot over and into the space.

He complies.

"I don't like you just because you sometimes seem human."

"But outside of Kamski's—"

"Hey. No. My turn to talk." Hank's hand raises and hovers. Connor believes he's trying to decide whether or not to rest it on his thigh. In the end, Hank opts out, aborting the motion into a terrible facsimile of scratching his jaw instead. "Kamski's doesn't count. I like you better when you aren't killing innocent people, android or not, got it?"

"Got it."

"That's not the point. I like..." He swallows. There's perspiration gathering on his temples, and his body temperature is palpably rising. "I like _you_ , Connor. As you are. And as you're becoming. If I wanted someone who acted human, I'd find exactly that. An actual human. Hell, there are even androids who blend in better than you do."

A small warning pops up in Connor's vision. His expression matrix glitched briefly and has revealed the slight sting Hank's words caused.

Hank notices and gives him a small, crooked smile. "You do weird shit like scan stains on my floor and count the pollen in the air. I come out at night for a glass of water and you're out here doing _something_. God knows what. Sometimes you're doing stuff on my computer, or you're using my headphones to listen to my music, or you're balancing all my dishes on Sumo as he's sleeping. That's weird. It's real fucking weird, and it definitely isn't human." Hank's hand finally moves to Connor's thigh after all. "And when we mess around? And your skin turns off or glitches out and your voice goes all crackly and robotic. The fact that I gotta fuck with your sensors or get a hand inside you to screw around with some of your weird wire shit." The hand squeezes. Connor might be getting distracted. "That's what I like about you, Connor. And you can't find a single human like that."

Hank is very... unpredictable. Connor was made to adapt to that, but it's hard when Hank keeps tripping him up and making him start all over again.

"So, you _don't_ want me to purchase genitalia?" Connor asks.

"I'm saying I don't care one fucking way or another. You want a dick, or a... a... you know, you can get one. I'd roll with it just fine. But I need you to know that I can handle you just fine without one too."

"Hmm." Connor hadn't considered this possibility. The idea that Hank might be okay with him as an android. Or no, that Hank is okay with him being _himself_. He harshly quarantines and deletes his projected outcomes for the conversation. This will require more deliberate thought and outside advice.

"And Connor. Don't ever run an interrogation on me in our house again."

"Yes, Hank. I'm sorry," Connor says sincerely. "I... I didn't... I don't have a pre-created protocol for handling these kinds of interactions."

"So we'll make some together, okay?" Hank's thumb rubs against Connor's leg. He feels the synthetic musculature he has there jump automatically. "Oh, no," Hank groans, hand freezing. "No, not tonight. I gotta get some sleep. You're _killing_ me."

"I'm sorry, Hank." This time, he isn't really.

"Save it." Hank sounds gruff, but the wrinkle near his eyes says he's joking. "Go apologize to Sumo for kicking him out of the living room. You wanna get feisty, you can wait until morning." He pats Connor's thigh and pulls away, back popping as he stands with a grunt. "Forget the electric cock. You oughta buy yourself a hand massager for nights like this."

Hank reaches forward, palm flat, and Connor gently takes it automatically. He slides his skin back to the elbow and lets his processors go blank and calm. Hank cups his jaw and plants a soft kiss on his lips before pulling away.

Connor still feels off balance, a little confused, like he's stumbled and fallen but somehow managed to land on his feet again. He shoots Hank a teasing wink anyway and gets a middle finger and a glimpse of a grin for his trouble.

"Night, Connor."

"Goodnight, Hank."

 

* * *

 

Domestically programmed androids are able to simulate sleep, but it's otherwise unnecessary.

Connor is an advanced model, prototype or not, and he's able to maintain a machine upkeep routine running in the background of his mind at all times. This means he has considerably more time in his day than a human would.

Usually, he'll use Hank's sleeping time to get some work done on their private investigation cases. He'll prep packets and forms for the lawyers they deliver results to or draft emails for civilian clients that Hank can read over in the morning.

Tonight, he paces.

His mind is constantly in flux, searching for something to do. He likes to pick physical tasks, as they help reduce the built up itch to perform and to scan. The coin tricks were once his favorite, but he hates them now. He hates what they symbolize; Cyberlife's ability to keep his code constantly progressing while blending in as humanoid as possible.

Walks help. Connor loves to take Sumo for a good midnight walk, but the dog is old and can't go for hours on end like he might have as a puppy.

The idea of taking up kickboxing has frequently come to Connor's mind.

His internal clock declares it to be exactly 2:30 a.m., about four and a half hours until Hank will wake up. Connor moves his pacing from the living room to the kitchen. He opens every drawer and scans inside, cataloguing the items they contain.

The three forks on the counter are lying at twenty-seven, sixty-five, and sixty-seven degrees respectively, provided that Connor considers himself to be at zero. He takes a knife out of the silverware drawer and sets it on the table. He places it at zero degrees. He visualizes a mathematical unit circle over the cutlery. Carefully, he rotates it to pi, or one hundred and eighty degrees. He resets it. He rotates it to five-thirds pi, or three hundred degrees.

When it fails to continue to entertain him, Connor flicks his wrist and launches the knife into the kitchen wall. Sumo whines and starts awake from where he's dozing by his water bowl, exhausted post-walk. The itch subsides, then roars back into focus. Connor unloads the drawer full of knives into the plaster in a useless attempt to satiate it.

On nights like this, when his brain is especially overactive, he usually crawls in bed with Hank. He'll roll his skin back from his hand and keep Hank's tight in his grip, letting the one-sided connection drown out his incessant action prompts and popups. It doesn't allow him to sleep, but it lets him _be_. He can lay, mind silent, and just feel the warmth of Hank's body and watch the way his eyelids flutter in REM or how he smacks his lips or farts at random.

But Connor still feels off tonight. He needs space, as is healthy in any relationship, according to his limited knowledge of such.

So he slips silently into Hank's room and opens his own half of the closet. He pulls off his trackpants and Hank's baggy DPD sweatshirt and replaces them with his old Cyberlife uniform.

One of his ballpoint pens is on the nightstand, so he takes it into the bathroom to leave a note.

It's only 2:48 a.m. when he steps out of the house and catches an autonomous cab into downtown Detroit.

The building he pulls up to is sleek and angular, with clean faces of glass or white painted concrete. It's one of many android habitations that have been built in the last few months. They house more than an equivalently sized human apartment complex might, as the units have no kitchens or bathrooms save one per floor in case of guests.

Connor's LED flickers yellow in his reflection as he calls ahead to signal his arrival. The front door clicks open in reply, and he presses his hand to the elevator's paneling, interfacing with it instead of punching in the floor number on the keypad for human visitors.

If it were anyone else, he would apologize for showing up unannounced, but he doesn't feel badly this time. RK-900 is always available for drop-ins during the hours of one to six a.m.

Simon had discovered him during the complete raid of Cyberlife Tower. He was the first and only one of his kind, designed based off of every report and mission statement Connor had ever sent. He was created to be _perfect_ and avoid every pitfall the RK-800 model was susceptible to.

In the room next door to where the as-yet-deactivated android had been found was a massive assembly line, ready to fabricate two-hundred-thousand more on command. Simon and Markus had shut down the conveyor belt together, then helped awaken a confused and agitated RK-900.

He was technically a Connor model too, but he'd rejected the name immediately, jerking his head in anger, LED red, when they'd called him by it.

He preferred the name Nines, one he'd come up with himself as his first independent act as deviant.

Nines joined the DPD shortly after Connor and Hank had left. Against all odds, he got along well with Detective Reed, his new partner on the force. Besides Reed and Connor, Nines didn't bother trying to get along with many other people.

 _I don't like to speak,_ he said via digital telepathy when Connor had first met him. The RK-900 model's voice modulator was programmed to only say a few simple replies, mostly signals that the android had received commands and understood them. He wasn't designed for conversation or integration with humans.

 _You don't have to,_ Connor had said back, through the same method.

_I know. I was merely informing you in an attempt to be... sociable._

And that had been that.

Even now, as Connor steps out of the elevator and knocks on Nines' door, he shuts off his own modulator in preparation.

 _Hello,_ Nines says, welcoming him inside.

 _Hello,_ Connor says back.

The walls of Nine's apartment are all white, but they certainly aren't blank. They're nearly covered in his tiny, precise handwriting, a massive display of his thoughts, distilled into code rather than English words. It reminds Connor of Rupert's diary. Obsessive writing, he thinks, but that isn't quite right here.

It's not obsessive; it's something to do. Nines covers his walls with his mind; Connor fills his walls with kitchen cutlery.

A small popup alerts him that Nines is scanning him. _What?_ Connor asks, a touch defensively.

Nines' face is impassive. _I was checking for injury, both physical and digital._

Connor frowns. _Why would I be injured?_

_There are only so many reasons why you might be here on such short notice. Injury was my primary presumption, but I see now I was wrong._

There are no chairs in the living room. Just stacks of tablets and the odd physical file folder. Connor scans them and finds that they're case work, all carefully wrapped in a thin, lead-like lining to prevent him from reading them from here. A white rectangle pings to the front of his focus, and Connor locates a holo-disk, partially obscured by a magazine tablet.

It's a remastered copy of the original Blade Runner, serial number 1.674.52. Registered as purchased on November 3, 2027, by Gavin Reed.

Nines' blue eyes narrow slightly. _Did you come here to peruse my belongings and make my apartment your own personal crime scene?_

It's the second time Connor has been accused of this in a single evening. _No. Your previous guess was more accurate that you thought. I believe I'm suffering from an injury of the... emotional variety._

_Emotional? You might be here a while then. Sit down._

Nines heads toward his bedroom. When Connor stays for a long chat, they tend to talk over bottles of Thirium. It feels nice, like the companionship and camaraderie humans feel when they eat together.

In the few short seconds Nines is gone, Connor can't help himself. He observes the fibers of the carpet and zooms in on an invisible oily smear on the wall, at about head height for a seated figure. His reconstruction reveals that Nines and someone else, a human with dirty hair, sat against the wall between the piles of case work for some time. Connor stoops to swab the smear and raises his finger to his tongue. DNA analysis conclusively identifies Gavin Reed again.

Nines walks back out to where Connor is crouched by the wall. He looks unimpressed, but then again, he always does. _Entertaining yourself?_ he asks.

 _You watched a movie with Detective Reed,_ Connor says with certainty. He's not sure why it bothers him so much. Except... perhaps because _he_ was the model designed to relate with humans, yet it was Nines who managed to befriend Gavin.

 _No sense in denying it._ Nines passes Connor a bottle of Thirium. Neither of them take a sip, though they both sit, crosslegged and facing each other on the floor.

_How did you convince him to do that with you?_

Nines never breaks eye contact, and he's mastered the art of never blinking or simulating breathing. _I didn't. On the contrary, it took nine days for Gavin to convince_ me _to watch with him._ If it weren't for his blue LED slowly turning, he wouldn't appear to be active at all. _I detect a certain amount of jealousy in your inquiry. Could it be that your real question is how I managed to form a decent professional relationship with Gavin?_

Connor frowns and looks away first. The sensation Nines sends across their connection is mildly proud. _In the short time I was with the DPD, I was never able to have a decent conversation with the detective._

_You were too polite._

_What?_

Nines now looks visibly smug, though it's a minute change, located mostly in the precise tipping of his eyebrows. _You were too nice. I introduced myself with more intimidating physicality. It evened the playing field considerably._ Without looking, Nines unscrews the lid of his bottle and raises it to his lips. _Gavin enjoys a partner who can push back and hold his own in verbal banter._

This piques Connor's interest. _Verbal?_

_There are more ways of speaking than vocally and digitally. Gavin and I have found that a combination of texting and basic sign language make it very easy to be rude and condescending about others with few to no consequences._

Connor fiddles with the lid of his own Thirium. _Have you ever considered... purchasing a new voice modulator? One that allows you to speak audibly?_

_Yes. But I will not. My modulator is not responsible for my dislike of speaking. Nor would replacing it make me feel more... individual in any way. I'm content with my hardware as is._

_But you've changed your name from RK-900._

_Of course. That was my decision. It made me feel comfortable. I'm not what Cyberlife programmed me to be. Neither are you._ Nines tilts his head. It feels less like a mannerism and more like he's gently mocking Connor's own proclivity. _If this is about the genitalia conversation, like I suspect it is, I would advise that you determine whether or not allowing such a modification would feel more like an addition or like something you should always have had. I feel I should have always had a name, so I gave myself one, but a new voice modulator would just be an add-on to the body I've already decided is mine._

Connor nods slowly, parsing the words and filing them away for private contemplation. _You've improved at being an individual far faster than I have._

Nines doesn't move or blink as he says, _Not really. I've just learned by watching you._

 

* * *

 

Connor meets Hank at their office the next morning. His talk with Nines stretched beyond the usual duration, meaning that Hank woke up alone and found the note on his mirror.

When Connor steps into the backroom, Hank has a headset on and is frowning intently at his terminal display, brightness at maximum. He's watching a video of a professor addressing a lecture hall. There are twenty-four seconds remaining.

Connor squats behind the glass screen and waits.

Sure enough, when the video ends and Hank turns off the terminal, Connor's face suddenly becomes visible through the transparent surface. Hank shouts and stumbles backward as the headphones, still connected, are ripped off his head.

"Connor! Fucking hell, don't do that!" His heartrate is clocking in at eight beats-per-minute faster than usual.

"Sorry, Hank," Connor says flatly. He ticks up the corner of his mouth in his equivalent of a "shit-eating grin."

"Oh, yeah. You sure look sorry. How'd it go with Nines?"

"We had an excellent and stimulating conversation."

"Good. Good. How's he holding up?"

"I... I believe he and Detective Reed are becoming... thick as thieves, as you might say."

The hand Hank had been rubbing his chest stops moving. "No way. Nines and _Gavin_?"

"I found the situation exceeded my probability calculations as well."

"Which is _your_ way of saying it surprised the shit out of you."

Connor disconnects the headphones and starts to wraps them in their cord. "I suppose so." He pauses to wave away his prospective dialogue prompts. This sort of conversation has to be determined in the moment. "Hank, I'd like to apologize for last night. I allowed my discomfort with the subject matter to affect my handling of situation. I fell back onto what was easy for me, and not what was fair for you."

Hank nods, crossing his arms and leaning back against Connor's desk to listen.

"At first, I didn't think the discussion of genitalia could make me uncomfortable, as I don't have the same human aversion to nudity. But it seems that what made me feel that way was my personal disagreement with changing myself beyond what I deem necessary." Connor feels his fingers flex, looking for something to do to distract himself. "What I'm trying to say is, I don't think I want to modify my physicality at this time, and I'm sorry for treating you like a suspect without regard for your own emotional wellbeing."

There's a second of silence, during which Connor begins to preconstruct the fastest route for him to exit their office. Then Hank steps close.

"Come here, Connor." He wraps him in a tight hug. His heartrate has mostly returned to normal. Hints of food in his facial hair indicate he ate a muffin for breakfast. The shirt he's wearing should probably be washed before he puts it on again.

Connor's Thirium pump warns him of excessive activity. He feels warm, though internal sensors indicate no change in temperature.

"I forgive you, Connor," Hank mumbles into his neck. "And I'm not gonna kick you out just because you have nothing down there. And I won't kick you out because you perforated the kitchen wall either."

Connor tries to have the decency to look ashamed, but his expression matrix can't quite figure it out. "And we can continue our same activities as before?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course. I just needed you to know that there's more to being alive than being human."

Connor nods, even though he doesn't quite get it. It doesn't fit right into his code. Doesn't slot into place with his algorithms and RAM.

As they wrap up the evening's work of paperwork for their last open case, he partitions a section of his processors for Hank and Nines' words, mulling over them and trying to make any sense beyond surface value.

"Hey, Connor. You coming with me or should I call you a cab?" Hank is leaning on the open door of his car. A scan of the vehicle reminds Connor of its upcoming smog check. The registration stickers will be good for another thirteen months. The gas levels are high enough for two more days of regular use.

"Coming, Hank," he says, shutting and locking the door to their office. He interfaces with the handle to activate the alarm system, then climbs into the passenger side.

Hank throws his arm behind Connor's headrest as he twists in his seat to look through the rear window and back up the car. Connor carefully documents and stores the sensation of Hank's arm hairs against the sensitive nape of his neck.

It isn't until they pull out onto a main road that Hank punches a few buttons on his stereo. He cranks a knob to hike up the volume. Seventeen seconds in, Connor's databases register it as the title track of Knight of the Black Death's 2023 album. As they drive, Hank's hands drum on the wheel in time with the bass and barely distinguishable beat. He nods his head in a similar rhythm.

This is not a new habit, but the way he keeps curiously glancing at Connor is.

"Hey," Hank half-shouts over the loud music. "This is what I mean. About being alive. It's this music."

Connor frowns. "This song is called 'Nails Against Skin,' and it's the first song on the Knight—"

"No, Connor. That's a bunch of facts and data. I can find that with a search engine and decent internet connection. Being alive is about feeling things in your own way. You can't research that." Hank turns up the volume until it's almost impossible to hear over it. "Come on!" he shouts. "Try this!"

A warning on Connor's visual display advises him to brace himself to avoid physical injury, so he grabs the handle over the door. "Hank! I should warn you that human reaction times can be slowed by up to twenty percent when listening to loud music!"

"Shut the fuck up and enjoy it!" Hank calls back, grinning. He keeps his eyes on the road as he reaches over with one hand to gently rock Connor's head forward and back in time with the music. "Like this, Connor!"

The way Hank wildly nods his head, hair flying, is sending a volley of warning messages into Connor's view, and he instinctively reaches to steady the wheel.

"I've got it! I've got it! Relax!"

Connor cannot relax, his synthetic adrenaline response surging through his veins, but he does concede to bob his head a little, barely even stirring the curl of hair that rests on his forehead. It makes Hank smile though, so he can't feel that badly.

Against Connor's terrifying statistical odds of vehicular injury, they make it back, and Hank pulls up over the curb and onto the lawn in front of their house. He turns off the ignition and the music dies.

"I take it that isn't really your speed, huh?" Hank laughs.

"I don't mind _listening_ to music per say, but..."

"Alright, well. There's lots of other stuff you can do to music than headbang."

Connor nods. His processors are still certain that deactivation is imminent. He walks into the house a little dazed, audio components still regaining full capacity.

After they both change into more casualwear, Hank starts his dinner, namely a microwavable meal that, while it advertises its healthy and organic contents, also contains 810 mg of sodium. Connor will have to suggest taking up a low sodium variety if Hank insists on eating these.

The microwave beeps three times as it's set to run for six minutes on medium power.

Instead of standing guard over his heating meal, Hank pushes past Connor to walk up to his record player.

Connor knows the process of setting and playing a record, but he enjoys watching Hank do it. His hands are wide and sure of themselves as they gently lift the needle, align the record, and then ease it back down. There's an out of place dialogue box that indicates an odd sensation of jealousy for the record player's mechanism.

The smooth jazz that starts up is also instantly recognizable, but Connor dismisses his analysis of the first few notes. He can recognize the song without the help of his external database, as Hank shows strong favoritism for this particular album. Autumn Blues, by The Michegan Brothers.

Connor is _trying._ Feeling is much harder than knowing. Knowing comes naturally to him, but feeling requires more work. There's a certain amount of vulnerability needed to find and experience emotions. It's easier to block them out.

But then Connor sees Hank offering him a hand, and suddenly it's hard _not_ to feel the thick, viscous emotion that grinds in his Thirium pump and blinds him with pop-ups. He can see every valley and crease in the skin of Hank's hand, and Connor retracts his skin automatically, reaching out for it.

"You aren't going to try to strangle me, are you?" Hank grunts.

"No, Hank."

"Punch me out?"

"No."

"Excessive bodily harm?"

In reply, Connor just grabs his hand. The cool slide of peripheral processes eases away. The scan results flicker and fade until it's just Connor, Hank, and the connection between them. A rough thumb slides along Connor's exposed plastic. A glitch in his synthetic lungs hitches his breath. Hank intertwines their fingers, and the structural integrity of his legs begins to fluctuate.

"This is gonna be a lot more intense than I expected," breathes Hank, but he takes a gentle step back, pulling Connor's body with him.

They make slow circles around the room, and Hank reaches down to Connor's hip in an obvious attempt to try and help him sway more.

"Come on. Loosen up a little. It's not a fight."

Connor begs to differ. He's having to fight to stay upright. The constant clench and squeeze of their hands is teasing him up a tense slope.

A temperature spike registers and is immediately swept away when Hank puts a hand on the small of his back and pulls him close. Connor sags, feeling the soft cushion of Hank's chest and stomach against his front. He loops his free arm around Hank's neck to stabilize himself and lets out all the unnecessary air in his lungs into Hank's jaw and beard.

"I..." Connor starts, his voice only mildly affected, "I know hundreds of dances, and I can... can download them if you let go for a minute."

Hank shakes his head, the scratch of his facial hair sending invalid electrical pulses down Connor's spine. "Nah. This is fine. This is nice."

The microwave dings. Hank doesn't stop moving them around the living room.

"Hank, your food."

"It can wait."

A synthetic synapse sends a message to Connor's CPU. It can wait for this. This strange form of human intimacy. Dancing. It doesn't seem like it would do much for an android, but the way Hank is pressed up against him and how personal this seems to be... Even the way Sumo noses up against their legs, before growing disinterested and padding into the bedroom, should meet all the criteria for Connor's self-defense protocol to activate. But Hank's hand remains steady against his, blocking the errant Cyberlife code from initiating.

Hank pulls back enough to look at him, and Connor registers his visual field has dropped to fifty percent. He tries and fails to open his half-lidded eyes. The command gets lost somewhere in the mess Hank's hands are making in his code.

Without the ability to download a ballroom dancing script, Connor takes careful note of Hank's movements, doing his best to emulate him. Connor's joints are state of the art, Thirium-lubricated with a range of motion on par with that of the latest combat models, but they operate in a lock-and-torque manner. They swing, lock solidly into place, then use that stability to power the next muscle contraction, meaning that while Connor can perform lithe gymnastics mid-chase, he's not cut out for the slow and fluid way Hank is steering them about the living room.

He's too mechanical and he knows it. Even a precreated program won't fix that.

The thought slices through his muffled processors like a major system error. Connor loosens his hand and gently pulls away. Of course, the second he does, he has to redirect the majority of his consciousness to repress the self-defense urges that try to overwhelm him and push to the top of his objectives.

Hank knows this routine by now, and once Connor releases him, he steps backward and turns around, sinking into a crouch that makes his knees pop.

The non-threatening position helps, and Connor finally overrides the violent commands.

"Hank," he says softly, a little raspy.

The song on the record ends and a new one begins.

"Alright, Connor?" asks Hank, turning back around. "Too much?"

It takes a minute for the system diagnostic to finish running. "I don't understand," says Connor.

"Don't understand what? Dancing?"

"You don't want me to purchase genitalia to please you. You encouraged my decision to keep my LED implant. And statistical calculations predict that you won't approve of my suggestion to receive a joint replacement to help improve my dancing." An alert informs him that his LED is flashing red. "I possess the ability to infinitely upgrade my components and processors, yet you continue to show no preference for me to do so. Why is that?"

Hank sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. He reaches over to lift the needle, stopping the melancholy music. "Okay. We need to talk." He sits down hard on the couch and pats the spot next to him.

Connor waves away proximity alerts to sit as close as he had the night before, but Hank doesn't touch him.

"There's this thing in relationships, Connor, called compromise."

The definitions appear in the lower right of his vision, but the words provide no insight regarding Hank's intentions.

"Humans, we... We aren't that flexible. I can't install a new set of robo-feet just because I want to walk faster, and if I wanna know something, I can't run a fucking web search and become an expert in half a second. If we want change, it takes effort."

If Hank wanted to walk faster via upgraded parts, Connor would advise a leg replacement before feet.

"Connor... Now, maybe it's because I'm human, so I'm approaching this in a human way, just like you're approaching it like an android, but knowing how quickly and easily you can just... switch your parts out and download weird crap makes me feel kinda," he pauses to mull over the word, "guilty."

"But Hank, since I've moved in, you've been making a consistent effort to keep your parts of our house clean. You've allowed me to modify your nutrition and exercise routines. How is that any different?"

Hank stares into the distance for a minute, silently thinking. His version of a yellow LED.

"Because that's self-improvement. That's you helping me grow into a better version of myself." His face opens up as he seems to catch his train of thought. "I'm taking the bullshit I'm made of and adding some polish. If you go off and buy a new fucking arm or head or leg, or hell, a robo-pussy, just because you think it'll make me happy, you're doing it wrong. I want to help you learn how to work with the parts you have, not make you build yourself into an entirely different android."

"But Hank, if you could upgrade part of yourself to improve our relationship, wouldn't you?"

"I can't lie. It'd be difficult to resist." Hank's eyes narrow, and he leans back suspiciously. "Why? What would you change about me?"

Connor feels time seem to slow as he activates all his processors to consider. His first impression would be deleting whichever portion of Hank's mind is responsible for his suicidal tendencies, but a quick review of psychological research indicates that a slow recovery aided by authentic support is the most fulfilling way to deal with such things.

Connor considers replacing Hank's tailbone, the part of him that he says starts to ache if he sits on a hard surface for too long. But that also doesn't feel right. That's a piece of Hank's physical form, and he couldn't bear the responsibility of removing it.

He could try to change Hank's alcoholism or his survivor's guilt or the capricious part of his personality that results in him pushing away his friends with insults and anger.

He could improve Hank's deductive skills or grant him additional strength or delete bad memories that still weigh him down.

But then Connor's left with a totally different person. Someone who isn't Hank, and that isn't acceptable.

What would he change about Hank if he could?

"Nothing," Connor answers honestly. The words blurt out near instantaneous from Hank's perspective. For an android with his computing skills, this was a fast and straightforward conclusion to draw.

The corners of Hank's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "Exactly. And I wouldn't change anything about you. Not like that." He finally touches Connor, resting a huge, warm hand on the back of his neck. "If we change, we do it together for _both_ of us. Major changes to your brain and body, you decide for yourself. Hell, you're still coming to terms with being awake or whatever. You can fuck around with anything you want. But do it for _you,_ Connor. Not me."

Connor nods once. It makes more sense in context. He can't quite grasp the complexity of Hank's feelings for the topic, but it no longer confuses him that Hank wouldn't want him to replace the majority of his parts.

"But I can still research topics and skills to improve myself?" he asks.

"I can't tell you what to do. But yeah, of course. Just know that not everything is improved by perfection. Like dancing. Just now, with you like this, meant more to me than you sweeping me off my aching feet would ever do. And uh..." Hank glances down and to the left. It's a nervous tic that lateral eye movement studies would say suggests he is collecting thoughts via internal dialogue, though Connor knows the theory has been mostly debunked by the scientific community.

Hank clears his throat and shifts in his seat. "Humans can do that too, you know. Research and learn shit. Takes us a hell of a lot longer, especially when you get to my age, but we can do it."

Unbidden, Connor accidentally absorbs the content of several peer reviewed papers on neuroplasticity. It occupies his time as he waits for Hank to summon the courage to finish his thought.

"I've been taking some online classes," he finally says. "It's not like, an accredited university or anything, but I'm not looking for a certificate or degree." Hank is slightly flushed, like he's embarrassed by this admission.

Connor really tries to grant him some privacy in his day to day life, but sometimes his scans and data inquiries work faster than he means them to. He skims Hank's bank records, past the grocery purchases and cab fares and Connor transferring money to pay for utilities, and finds the tuition withdrawal from the local community college.

He believes this is what Hank has been doing in his downtime while Connor is out with Nines or Markus and Simon.

He flips through Hank's browser history.

"Computer engineering?" Connor asks.

"Uh, yeah. Basic circuits and electrical engineering. Especially stuff to do with hardware." Hank's hand tenses on Connor's neck.

It stalls his analysis by two thousandths of a second, but Connor is fairly certain these classes have been for _his_ benefit.

"What have you learned?"

The pink tint to Hank's cheeks goes ruddy and red instantly. "It's not easy. And you know me and computers, but as a young adult, I was pretty good with them, so I've been catching on slowly and... Did you know I should probably be grounding myself before I fuck around in your wirey stuff?"

A clear picture of what Hank has been trying to learn begins to appear in Connor's mind palace.

"Actually... My biocomponents are resistant to static and are insulated to prevent electrical shock."

Hank nods, but he doesn't really seem to have listened. He's squeezing down on Connor's neck, forcibly retracting the skin there to stroke his thumb against hard plastic.

The soft buzz of current sucks both Connor's attention and artificial breath away. A hand rests on his thigh again, helping stabilize Hank as he leans over to nose at Connor's ear.

"Hey," he whispers, and Connor feels an electrical impulse shoot up his neck.

"Hello, Hank," he says back, the familiar sound of his voice modulator wavering audible to them both. "Somehow I doubt that your classes have any sort of emphasis on sexual stimulation for investigative android models."

Hank snorts and his beard scratches against Connor's face. "I've learned a lot about android hardware," he says, voice surprisingly level. "What's your opinion on dummy loads?"

Dummy loads?

Connor cross references dummy loads and physical intimacy but finds no results. Commonly known as e-loads, dummy loads can provide power to a circuit for testing purposes. The strength of its emissions can usually be controlled by a technician. If used improperly, they can overheat resistors and cause voltaic arcs...

Even the _idea_ raises his internal temperature by two degrees. The now familiar system reboot pop-up demands attention on his HUD.

_System Reboot: 44%_

"You'd know better than me how safe an internal electrical arc would be," Hank says even as he slides a hand under Connor's shirt. His palm slides along Connor's torso until it rests against the center of his abdomen.

Connor tries to think. Running system projection. Projection complete.

"I'd have to run in safe mode. Isolate my vital biocomponents from the overloaded circuit." He isn't saying no. He's trying to find the best way to emphatically say _yes._ "For the purposes of accelerating your studies, I believe we should try.

Hank huffs a laugh, gently runs his jagged nails against Connor's skin until he retracts it. Once he feels plastic, he sits up enough to help Connor pull off his shirt altogether.

"Alright. I feel like I'm obligated to tell you that I'm not getting any sort of grades or credit for this shit, but if you're interested..."

Connor runs through recordings of their past interactions, searching for a good response. He settles on looping his arms around Hank and pulling him down onto the couch.

Hank hovers above him, pupils dilated and respiration accelerated.

_System Reboot: 52%_

Connor opens his abdominal compartment, and for a moment, they both just stare inside. His Thirium pump is expanding and contracting rapidly, and there's something oddly electric about seeing that with Hank. He still remembers how it felt when Hank grazed it with a knuckle, a sensation that registered as catastrophic heat that he couldn't decide whether to chase or escape.

He recalls and replays the footage of Hank's face, reverent and soft like he rarely allowed it to be, trapped under his human equivalent of suppression code.

The pump stutters irregularly and glows brighter for a cycle.

"That okay?" Hank asks, still staring.

"Yes. That was... That was because of you."

A little crease forms between Hank's eyebrows. "Me?"

"I was just revisiting some previous memories of you and..." The pump's rhythm hitches again. "And that happened."

"Jesus christ," Hank groans, hiding his face in Connor's bare shoulder. "If you make mine do that, I'm gonna keel over right on top of you."

Connor ticks the corner of his mouth up in his smile, then runs his own palms, bare white, along the backs of Hank's thighs. The sensors register hairs and scars and stretch marks along the surface, and Connor lets out his first unintentional sound, a tinny vibration that he can feel even between his visual components.

_System Reboot: 63%_

As expected, Hank pulls back to watch his face closer. Then he reaches unsteady fingers inside Connor's chassis to prod a single exposed wire. If this is what skin on biocomponent contact is like alone, Connor really doesn't know if he'll be able to handle a controlled electrical arc. The sensation wipes away all subroutines, silencing his processors and activating his synthetic musculature.

His back arches as an unidentifiable part of him follows after the touch.

"Fuck," Hank spits, deeper than usual, but he reaches back in and holds the wire.

There are no nerves, manufactured or otherwise, in the wires themselves. The true origin of the touch is noticeable at the connections where each biocomponent hooks together. There is a detailed engineering lesson that Connor could teach Hank here, but then strong fingers tug that single wire out of its socket.

For one wild second, Connor thinks he might have deactivated.

None of his sensors register information, as if he's floating in a black void; then all his systems activate at once.

He whips upward and wraps around Hank. His mind palace shatters into incomprehensible gibberish. Invalid code flashes across his HUD in time with the vibrations of his voice modulator. Then the system reboot leaps straight to completion, rolling pure synthetic oxytocin throughout his body.

Hank's mouth is open, and even though his eyes are completely dilated, the cognizance in them is obvious. He's doing his best to record this moment too.

"Sure you're up for this?" he asks.

Connor fumbles mentally, nearly blurting his serial number and current software version instead of a reply. It takes him a moment to realize his error, and he quickly amends it by grabbing Hank's wrist and guiding his hand back in.

"God, this is so different from how the guy giving the lab demo made it look," Hank mumbles.

Connor raises his head to watch the way Hank carefully maneuvers the wire. He edges it near the connective port, but doesn't let it touch. When it's so close that even the heartbeat in Hank's hands might twitch it into contact, the first arc cracks.

It comes from far away, as if Connor's audio components are somehow in the bedroom with Sumo instead. It rings like an echo while his vision tunnels and shorts out.

Connor's legs wrap around Hank's waist and pull, forcing him to leverage his weight against Connor's hips to keep his sharp, open torso down and protected.

It's as if the arc threw him down a deep, dark well, then the release yanked him straight back up. Connor swears he can feel his nonexistent eardrums pop with the depressurization.

"Connor..." Hank breaths. "What does it feel like?"

What does it... What does it feel like?

Connor tries to search for technical terminology and an analytical way to describe the sensation, but Hank sends another arc snapping between connections and shatters his algorithms and dialogue prompts.

When he finally resurfaces, it takes him three tries to focus his optical lens on Hank's face.

"It... It feels..." His voice is wrecked and makes his expensive speakers sound like echoing tin cans. "It feels like..."

Connor doesn't have much to compare it to. He's never drowned, because he doesn't need to breathe. He's never been lit on fire, nor has he been impaled. Yet that seems the best way to explain it.

"It's like dying," he finally says. "Deactivating, but then I'm immediately reuploaded to a new body, just to deactivate again."

Hank freezes. "Does it hurt? Should I stop?"

"No!" Connor quickly wraps a hand around Hank's shoulder. "Don't stop, Hank."

This time when the wire moves in, the spark is white and lingers in Connor's crackling vision even after it technically fades. He rushes back into himself mid-gasp. His resistors are overheating, and his body is desperately panting in an attempt to circulate cooling air.

He wonders if it _looks_ like he's dying too.

"Hank, what do I look like?" Connor chokes out with a modulator that can barely modulate.

"Jesus fuck, Connor... You..." Hank swallows hard and his throat bobs, disrupting the path a drop of sweat is taking toward the damp collar of his t-shirt. "Every time I get an arc, your skin goes all weird and see-through. Your eyes kinda cross, and you make this _sound._ " He sits up enough to trail his free hand down Connor's exposed throat. "All this smooth skin. With your blue... blushing or whatever."

The sweat on Hank's fingers must travel to the wire's connection, accentuating the strength of the arc. "And Connor, you've got everything on display. I can see all your wires and electrical shit. What makes you _you._ Honestly, I... I still can't believe you're sharing this with... me."

Connor's visual components throw up their last ditch warnings before reducing input quality to 240p resolution. He wheezes Hank's name, and something in his voice must reveal what he needs, because Hank starts up a rapid rhythm, tapping the wire's end against its connective port.

Feel. Don't think.

Connor is molten, his insides liquid. He's so hot, he's surpassed Thirium blue and progressed to human blood red and a yellow so white it burns. His external temperature bypasses that of a human, and Hank's body becomes a cooling balm against him. A scratch for the itch he can't reach. The damp of Hank's sweat wicks the heat from Connor's chassis, exposed and white as he loses tracks of the execution code in control of his skin.

A fragmented warning appears, but it's an illegible smear of invalid data strings.

Above him, Hank shifts, dropping down to one elbow so he can box Connor's head in between his arm and the back of the couch. His lower body tangles there too, revealing how impossibly hard Hank is.

"Someday," groans Hank, tapping the wires faster and speaking so softly that it registers in the same range as feedback to Connor's audio processors, "I'm gonna string you up on a maintenance frame and open you all up."

Connor preconstructs it. He can't help it; it's near automatic.

He imagines the weightless dangle of his legs and the helpless clench of his arms against the metal restraints. The intimacy of showing Hank _everything._ His biocomponents on display and his wiring exposed and pulled from his chassis to coil around maintenance spools. He wants Hank to rub his rough, calloused thumb across his Thirium pump. He wants him to open the port at the back of neck and thread his fingers into Connor's vital cables.

He wants Hank to pull his legs together and fuck him just like that, right between his plasticine thighs.

Hank reconnects the wire and it throws bright blue sparks that shimmer on the couch's fabric, and Connor's consciousness, the complex artificial intelligence and lines of code and individual semicolons that make him who he is, comes free as he's ripped from his own mind in a simulation of uploading his memory to Cyberlife servers that he can no longer access.

His mind tries to access a distant hard drive that doesn't exist, and his exposed plastic skeleton interfaces with the whole of Hank's body, pressed against him, waiting for an informational exchange that will never come.

But Connor does.

 

* * *

 

_Initializing BIOS chip._

 

_Accessing boot loader._

 

_Kernel autoprobing._

 

_Opening virtual consoles._

 

_Loading HUD._

 

Connor opens his eyes and watches Hank's face come into focus above him.

"Connor! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

His vocal programs are still booting up, so Connor has to settle for a dazed shake of his head, LED rapidly flashing white as it waits for colorization to load.

"That mean you're fine?"

Connor nods shakily, and Hank breathes a sigh of relief, letting the worry on his face shift to pride in a job well done.

Connor's skin is repairing itself, and it pulls together neatly to cover his torso where the paneling has already retracted and shut. His wires are tucked neatly away once more.

If he were human, Connor thinks he would be exhausted. Right now he's feeling the android equivalent, processor speed reduced and sluggish, attempting to complete a full reboot.

But that doesn't stop him from feeling where Hank's cock is still warm and hard, nestled in the crook between Connor's thigh and bare groin.

Hank notices too, and he starts to sit up and pull back, but after that spectacle? Connor isn't going to let Hank get away so easily.

As Hank tips up and away, Connor follows, pressing his hands into soft shoulders and easing him back. Afterall, it seems tonight is a night of trying new things, and he's been waiting for the chance to spring at this.

Once Hank is comfortably seated, or more accurately, _wedged_ between the back and arm of the couch, Connor slides from his lap onto the floor, letting his hands glide down Hank's chest then stomach then thighs as he goes.

Hank's eyes are dark, pitch black without even a hint of the icy blue visible in the shadow of his furrowed brows. Connor nudges his knees further apart and wraps his arms around Hank's waist to drag himself between them. He sits there, fingers on Hank's waistband, the question obvious from his position, but he want to verbalize it anyway.

"Hank, may I..."

A conflict triggers dialogue prompts into Connor's HUD. His initial option was "fellate you," but he has a feeling that clinical verbiage is not appropriate in this context. But the other phrases wrinkle his nose as he debates. Blow you? Suck you off?

Connor's modulator doesn't seem inclined to say those either.

A simulated countdown timer manifests in his mind, and Connor balks between his choices as it ticks steadily toward zero. Fellate? Blow? Suck? What should he say? What is most likely to raise Hank's arousal levels while also increasing their relationship stats?

His timer runs out and his instinctual processor takes over.

"Hank, may I... perform... oral sex..." Connor flounders awkwardly. His vision flashes red once, as if expressing additional disapproval.

Hank, for his part, laughs. A deep, throaty guffaw chokes its way out of his throat, and he flops an arm over his face, head tipping back. "Jesus," he gasps, positively tickled. "If you can't even say it, you definitely shouldn't do it!"

A tad defensive, Connor sits back on his heels and crosses his arms. He attempts to manually divert Thirium flow from his cheeks, but it's too late to hide it.

"You don't have to perform anything," Hank says between his residual chuckles. "I don't mind."

"But I _want_ to," Connor huffs.

A crooked smirk grows on Hank's face, perfectly in tune with his lax posture and half-lidded eyes. "You wanna _what_ , huh?"

He's teasing Connor again, and this time, he gets narrowed eyes in response.

"I want to use my mouth to bring you to climax."

This sets Hank off again, though his arousal miraculously hasn't dipped far. "It's like you get your dirty talk from a textbook," he says, though he concedes to run a hand affectionately through Connor's hair.

"Hank, it's not... innocence or a lack of experience that makes this hard, it's..." Connor mulls over his words more carefully. "As you've mentioned before, I rarely resort to profanity. It's not that I'm never frustrated. I am. I am _now._ It's that it's not professional behavior, and that makes it difficult for me to say... certain words or phrases."

"So you're saying it's against your programming?"

Connor lets his tongue flick out, even though he lacks saliva to make the movement effective. "I'm saying I'm having to manually create algorithms for this type of behavior."

Hank sits up and leans down, using one hand to tip Connor's chin up for a kiss. It's wet and dirty, a slow flick of tongue and human enamel teeth sinking lightly into a nanoskin lip. "Whatever you're comfortable with, Con," Hank breathes into him.

Connor lets Hank's stolen moisture coat the inside of his mouth, simulating the fluid he doesn't naturally produce himself. When Hank finally sits back, he scoots into place between his thighs. With a mouth that feels incredibly strange and slick, Connor speaks. "I would like to blow..." He hesitates and Hank looks at him expectantly and little excitedly. "...your phallus," he finishes.

"Well, it's a start." Hank smiles. "Go ahead. Blow my phallus to your heart's content." He lifts his hips and lets Connor pull his boxers down. The hem catches on his dick, and Hank uses a hand to free it before Connor can accidentally chafe it on the elastic.

When it comes to sexual acts, like most things, Connor knows instantly how to execute the task at hand, but he also knows that understanding the _process_ does not equate to him being _good_ at it. He first discovered this when he burnt nearly $12 worth of ingredients trying to cook a "well-done" omelet for Hank's breakfast.

Hank's dick sits there, arched up and curling toward his hipbone, moisture on the tip. It's dark with increased blood flow and bobs slightly with Hank's breathing and heartrate.

Connor faces it like an interrogation suspect. He's going to interrogate the _shit_ out of Hank's dick.

Dropping his jaw and pulling his lips over his teeth, Connor carefully slots it into his mouth. Above him, Hank tips his head back again, though this time it's with a groan and not a laugh. Connor drops slowly down until the tip nudges the bend that leads to his throat and into his voice modulator.

Hank's arousal spikes. So far, so good.

After brief consideration, Connor sets a moderate pace of 120 bpm, hands tense on the outside of Hank's thighs.

"Wait, wait. Connor," Hank grunts, though his voice is pleasantly strained. "Not so... consistent. You don't need a perfect rhythm. Just kinda _feel_ it. Slower. Draw it out."

Connor feels his expression matrix scrunch his face in concentration. He settles on Oscillation Rhythm 3, keeping his tempo varied.

"Okay, now that's a bit like a massage chair. Just... Connor... Here. Stop me if you don't like it. I'm gonna help guide you a bit." Hank sits up and his warm hands cup Connor's jaw.

A thumb strokes Connor's cheekbone and brushes the shell of his ear.

"God, you look good like this," Hank breathes, and it's gentler than he usually sounds, like he's cracking open inside and letting something new out.

Connor lets his eyelids flutter, excited to get started again.

With a careful shift of his hips, Hank eases Connor's head down then back up. Then he repeats the movement.

Hank is right.

The pace isn't perfect, and the motion is smoother than Connor had initially moved, but it's relaxed and easy and makes his modulator buzz in his simulated moan.

Hank's breath hitches and his hip jerk up a little further than previously, a delicious thickness in Connor's throat until he's abruptly wrenched off.

"Shit. Fuck. I'm so sorry," Hank blurts.

He probably thinks the motion was uncomfortable for Connor, as it undoubtedly would have been for a human partner.

"I don't require regular air intake," Connor says. "And I don't have a gag reflex."

"Yeah, but—"

"I enjoyed the sensation. I would like it if you would continue."

Hank gapes at him, but his arousal levels rise slightly, and he lowers Connor's head again. "You're gonna fucking spoil me for anyone else, Con," he breathes.

"That's the objective," Connor replies, only slightly muffled. His mouth being full doesn't impede his vocal function, which is dictated by his voice modulator and not the movement of his tongue and lips.

Hank's face twists like he thinks this is weird. It probably seems like it to him, not that Connor cares. He lets out another vibration and lets Hank tip up into him and set the pace again. Hank's thumb presses against the outline of his own cock through Connor's cheek, and his breathing goes rough and labored.

Connor's not going to be able to jog with him anymore without reconstructing this moment.

Hank's hips raise and hold steady, lifting his lower back from the couch, and Connor slips his hands there, letting them slide under his shirt to where the skin is damp with sweat. He pinches lightly at the soft flesh that pads Hank's sides, feeling the coarse hair that protects Hank's organic dermis. He retracts his skin to let his cool plastic _really_ revel in the tactile sensation.

Just as Connor starts to think that he's definitely got the whole fellatio thing down, Hank pulls him back up.

"Don't give me that look," Hank rasps, likely at the disappointed expression Connor's features have taken on. "It's just a little dry in there."

Of course. Connor doesn't produce saliva, as it is unnecessary to his advanced oral sensors, but any of Hank's own spit from his earlier kiss has long since evaporated. This could prove problematic.

Hank pushes Connor's curl out of his face. "It's fine. It's fine. Let me grab the lube and you can jerk me off instead."

It's unsatisfactory, and Connor frowns as Hank fishes between the sofa cushions for the bottle they'd left from the handjob two nights before.

"Open your hand," Hank says, but Connor reaches out and takes the bottle, making firm eye contact as he tips the bottle and squeezes an excessive amount of the contents into his mouth.

Analysis. Glycerin. Cellulose ether.

Hank's eyes seem to bug out.

"What the _fuck_ are you—"

Mouth sufficiently lubricated, Connor swoops back in, locking his hands together behind Hank's back and sucking his cock into his mouth.

"Holy shit, Con, you're so fucking—" Connor buzzes his modulator, ignoring how it sounds like a phone notification. "—perfect... You're so fucking perfect, Connor."

Hank groans and moves one of his hands to grip in Connor's hair. The other keeps rubbing a shaky thumb under his visual component socket, tracing the seam there that is currently hidden by nanoskin.

"You're doing so good," Hank continues to mumble. "Good boy. Good boy, Connor."

A Thirium circulation error ticks in Connor's vision, and he ignores it. His pump works harder to compensate.

Hank is no longer in charge of the rhythm. His grip is slack as Connor replicates the organic pace he had set earlier.

Connor rises up slightly on his knees to adjust the angle, letting the tip of Hank's cock nestle into the bend of his throat before holding still. He locks his synthetic musculature to keep Hank from pulling out, then lets his modulator hum freely.

The tendons in Hank's neck jut out as he groans. "Fuck. Oh _fuck_ ," he wheezes, and Connor's processors pitch match it to the time he'd saved him from falling off the roof.

He can feel the way Hank's testicles draw upward against his chin, and then Hank's spine snaps forward in the opposite direction, curling him around Connor's head in his lap.

Semen registers deep in Connor's throat, and he pulls back just as Hank starts to lift him off anyway.

Hank's face is flushed, and his chest is heaving as he catches his breath, eyes almost shut but apparently unwilling to miss the visual of Connor fellating him. It nearly feels better than when Hank got _him_ off instead.

The automatic cleaning function lifts and scrapes the mixture of lube and Hank's cum out of Connor's throat, and he opens his mouth to let it run out, dripping sloppily in long, slow moving strings down his chin and into his lap.

Hank stares at him, eyes wide again. "Fucking hell, Connor. You're so disgusting."

He's said it before, but now it sounds reverent and teasing, with a positive connotation, so Connor does his best to smile back.

He isn't great at it, he knows. The muscles aren't really there, and he's had very little practice, but he does his best approximation of a toothy grin, ignoring his viscous drool.

Hank returns it lazily with a snort, reaching down to bodily haul Connor up into his lap and hug him. Connor wipes his mouth on the shoulder of Hank's shirt, then after he gets a gentle pinch to his hip, shifts his head to rest on the other side. Hank's pulse is still racing, noticeable in his thumb where it rests against the back of Connor's neck.

Cheekily, Connor eases open the port there.

"Seriously?" Hank chuckles into his ear. "You're good to go again?"

"I'm also unequipped with a refractory period."

It seems like Hank really _is_ going to go to town in there, but then Sumo pads out of the bedroom, walking over and hopping up onto the couch next to them. He noses wetly at Connor's exposed side as he waits to be petted.

"Not in front of the dog, Connor," Hank says.

"Sumo has no concept of human or android sexuality."

But Hank frowns and shakes his head. "No. Not in front of the dog."

Connor glances quickly at the ceiling in his best imitation of the eye roll Nines has so perfectly learned from Detective Reed, then climbs out of Hank's lap to grab his shirt.

Hank stands up and stretches until his back pops. "I've worked up an appetite," he says. "Can I get you some blue blood?"

"Yes, please, Hank." Connor stoops to pet Sumo before following him to the kitchen. A notification estimates another fifteen minutes until his processors reach full functionality again.

Sumo whines pitifully, clearly upset that they've left just after he's gotten comfortable, but Hank pours him a new bowl of food that seems to placate him, drool flying as he enthusiastically munches.

Connor stretches up for one of his mugs, and Hank, moving behind him, gives him a little pat on his left butt cheek. While it doesn't register any incredible sensations in particular, it _does_ increase Connor's internal temperature incrementally, enjoying the easy way they dance around each other to grab snacks.

Hank makes a bowl of cereal, claiming it tastes better at night, and pops a piece of bread in the toaster. Once it pops, he yanks a knife from the wall, wiping it on his shirt before using it in the butter. He grabs his bowl of now-soggy cereal and leans backward against the counter, letting Connor curl as close to him as he can without interfering with Hank's eating. Connor sips his Thirium quietly, enjoying his peacefully blank mind for the few minutes he has left.

"Hey," Hank says suddenly, mouth full. "Here." He reaches behind himself for a paper towel, passing it to Connor, then lifts a spoonful of cereal up. "Try some."

Food and the ritual of eating are incredibly intimate to humans, and Connor understands that this is somehow very important to Hank. He leans forward and takes the cereal into his mouth, rolling it across his tongue and palate.

"How is it?"

Corn-based product. Genetically modified. Nonorganic. Sugar. Heavily processed. Fiber. Vitamin B12, from the milk. Riboflavin. Trace amounts of niacin and vitamin C.

No. That's _knowing._ Connor could get that from the side of the box.

His LED glows yellow as he tries again. He swirls it one more time, then lifts the paper towel to his mouth and spits the food out.

"It's... sweet," Connor says. "Rigid consistency, softened by milk absorption. It tastes... comfortable."

"Comfortable?"

"Like it is what it is, and it isn't trying to be anything else." He doesn't know how to explain its simplicity.

Hank smiles likes Connor has said something incredible anyway. Like they're talking about something more than just the taste of food.

Connor understands.

But then cereal is just cereal again, and Hank's eyebrow raises impishly. "That's because you only let me buy plain cornflakes and not a _fun_ cereal."

"What's really _fun,_ Hank, is ensuring your longevity via a carefully maintained diet," Connor retorts.

"Oughta be considered torture is all I'm saying. You take a man's favorite breakfast food, turn it into mushy bran, and still expect him to thank you."

"We could buy plain oatmeal instead."

"Fuck you." Hank's face splits in a grin despite his rough words. "You think you can win? I don't _need_ sugary cereal. I can handle and love oatmeal just fine."

The rush of simulated adrenaline signifies Connor's processors reaching full capacity, and his mind starts to race again. To counter it, he retracts the skin of his hand and slips it just under the hem of Hank's shirt to his favorite part of Hank's stomach where the flesh dips in for his navel. It silences the returned roar and grants him some more peace as Hank shovels his cornflakes into his mouth. It sounds remarkably similar to Sumo, who is currently lapping water messily from his bowl.

It sounds... comfortable.

"We oughta go somewhere," Hank says.

"Go? Now?"

"No. Not _now._ " Hank turns around to drop his bowl in the sink. "But soon. When we wrap up the paperwork on this last case."

Connor runs water into the dish so the milk won't solidify. "Like a vacation?"

"Mm. Yeah. Like a vacation. A road trip. Head across the country. Route 66, and all that crap. We could bring Sumo."

Connor lifts his hand and runs a quick web search before replacing it. "All Motel-6 locations are pet-friendly and allow well-behaved animal companions."

"Someone would need to watch the house."

"Nines could."

Hank scratches his nose with a fake casual air that fails to hide his simmering excitement. "Might be fun. Show you some sunsets and tourist traps."

"There are several attractions along that route that incorrectly call themselves 'the world's largest ball of twine.'"

"Yeah, there are. Why? You wanna see them?"

Connor tips his head in thought. "Yes. They're just hollow frames wrapped externally to _appear_ like solid spheres. But yes. I'd like to know which one really is the largest."

"Okay." Hank shrugs. "Sounds good to me. We should do it. Try new stuff together." He nuzzles his chin and beard against Connor's temple before dropping a kiss on the LED.

Comfortable.

And it's Connor's.

**Author's Note:**

> connor: here's the key. the front lights are on timers so don't mess with those. you're free to any Thirium you want. it tastes best in a mug and— oh, i think detective reed is trying to get your attention
> 
> nines:
> 
> connor: aren't you going to answer him?
> 
> nines: ...no
> 
> \---
> 
> pls come yell with me on twitter [@pseudoanalytics](https://twitter.com/pseudoanalytics)


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